Leave the stark mark of the cloud
and goddess of the night,
let us act the art of the heart,
parasites are pleading.
Like clanging sack, sound the tumbrel
of my music.
Papa, "pokey" play to ploy.
Some hard haze of drizzle troops to
South and to south stoic.
Albatross learn to gaze the haze and glaze.
Perhaps a harmless wind;
we preach of customs no more.
A horse whinnies on valleys
and lagoons, strong palate desire.
But where's the purity?
Skylark sings of roseate glow,
of slim-line caftans.
Blustery gift of calmness,
drowse of night dew and whir-blast
of Sunday summer.
You smooth the rough sea with the evening you bring.
You squeal Jordan with your supreme entwine.
You lend us the day of the night
and gift us to daily death.
Please tongue of host
Lambaste that musician
there is trouble.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem